The Kindly Ones

by Melissa Scott

  I hesitated. I really didn't want to work while I was in Destiny, during what I'd already half-decided would be a three-day vacation, but if one of the theaters was holding a khy sonon-na, I would want to see it anyway. It hardly seemed fair to let Rohin invite trouble by going into the Necropolis unaccompanied, when it would cost me nothing to let him come with me. I hadn't seen a khy sonon-na yet—the cabaret theaters held the shows, a competition among several holo companies to see who could perform the best version of a set scene, at irregular and inconvenient intervals--and I had always wanted to see one.

  Rohin took my hesitation for refusal. "Look, I promise you won't have to keep me company. I just need your sanction when I go to the theaters, that's all."

  I hesitated a second longer, but I really couldn't say no. Besides, I owed the Matriarch one for her remark about actors. "There are some people I want to see," I said slowly, "but I'll at least go with you to the khy sonon-na."

  "Thank you," Rohin said. "I do appreciate it—and I'm sorry Herself said what she did." He rose politely, with an apologetic glance at the clock. "I'm sorry to have stayed so late, especially with you just back from the Prosperities. . . ."

  "It's all right," I said, and let him bow himself out. When he had gone, I closed the blinds and turned up the lights, and began to get ready for bed. As I crawled into the stove-bed, drawing the curtains and pulling the down-filled blankets close around my ears, it occurred to me that I might be letting myself in for more than I intended. It was not a pleasant thought. I pushed the idea away and wriggled my feet closer to the bed's heating unit, giving myself up to sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Guil ex-Tam'ne, para'an of Tam'ne in Orillion

  Pipe Major settled gently onto the landing pad, and there was a sudden silence as the last of the jets cut out. Guil, who had ridden out the landing at the back-up pilot's station, nodded grudging approval, and then wished she hadn't as Pipe Major's senior pilot swung to face her, a cocky grin on his handsome face. Light glinted from the plate-and-sensor rosette of his artificial eye.

  "Pretty good, huh? If I do say so myself."

  Guil eyed him warily—he was new to Pipe Major this trip, but she knew his type, the sort who made up for perceived loss of beauty with an aggressive sexiness—but had to admit Sabas had done well. A lot of off-worlders failed to compensate properly for Orestes' relatively low gravity; Sabas had balanced it perfectly.

  "It'll do, "Moraghan said, forestalling the Oresteian woman's response. "Idris, get a line to the pad-captain, and let's get inside. Askel, we're finished with the main generator."

  "Finished with main generator, acknowledged." The chief engineer's voice sounded almost human in the speakers, the distortion of the artificial larynx obscured by the intercom mechanism. "Shutting down main generator. Port generator engaged at one-half power."

  Guil sighed softly as the unnatural gravity faded—Pipe Major, like most Conglomerate ships, ran at a full one G—and glanced quickly toward the door of the pilot's cabin. Elam Fyfe, her apprentice for this trip, had spent most of the run flat on his back, unable to handle the unfamiliar weight. Which wasn't too surprising, Guil thought, considering he's really Dessick Jan's apprentice. But that was typical of Dessick: not only did he do his best to avoid his own responsibilities, but in doing so he bred up another generation of inadequate pilots. Elam had been next to useless on the run in through the rings, able to take the controls for only a few hours at a time. The bulk of the burden had fallen on Guil—as usual, she thought sourly. Hell, I shouldn't even be on back-up duty now. I brought that Athenan ship in less than three weeks ago, and that was from Iphigenia's orbit, not just through the rings. But Dessick had pleaded Family business, and Oslac, as always, had picked her as the substitute. It wasn't so much that she minded the work—one of the reasons she had chosen to become para'an was so that she could work out of Orestes' busier ports—but the fact that Dessick and the rest were so confident they could always call on her. And they could: para'an as she was, she had none of the overriding Familial responsibilities the others could use to evade their professional duties. Personal wishes counted for little in Oslac's eyes—unless they happened to coincide with some Family rite. It was just a good thing that Conglomerate regulations that governed the amount of time a pilot could spend on duty left a generous safety margin.

  Guil shook herself hard. She had handled the ring passage easily—the duty regs were overcautious—and could've handled the entire transit even without Elam. For once, Dessick's shirking had worked out to her advantage. Moraghan was a good friend, and it was a pleasure to work with her. Besides, the Peacekeepers—even the ex- Peacekeepers who crewed the mailships—were different, both from Oresteians and from other off-worlders. Among other things, they neither pitied her nor blamed her for being para'an, and their training stopped them from passing any judgment on the Oresteian code. Moraghan asked only that a pilot do her job to perfection, and nothing more. Unlike some people.

  Guil glanced again at the pilot's cabin, just in time to see the door slide back. Elam appeared in the hatchway, bracing himself against the bulkhead. He was a handsome boy, tall and golden-haired, the shadowy Fyfe linked-stars tattoo half hidden beneath beard stubble, but at the moment he looked as though he had aged twenty years in the thirty-six-hour ring transit. Guil's instinctive reproof faded as she looked at him, and she said only, "Next time you'd do better not to skimp weight training."

  Elam nodded miserably, but said, "Dessick always said we didn't need it."

  Yeah, because Dessick doesn't take high-C ships, Guil thought. Oh, well, if this kills some of the kid's hero worship, it'il've been worthwhile. She shrugged, and said, "That's his choice, of course."

  Elam looked quickly around the control room. "Aren't we going now?"

  Guil gave him a puzzled glance. "Customs hasn't come aboard yet," she said. "I still have to hand over my log. . . ." Her voice faded as she saw Elam blush, and realized that this was another of the pilot's responsibilities that Dessick ignored. To calm herself, she stared at the main viewscreen, now displaying a bow-camera view of Destiny's landing field. The fused-earth apron gleamed faintly in the light from waxing Agamemnon, color fading as it merged with the Sunset sky. It was Dark in Destiny now, the best time. She would not spoil that with anger. "You can go on, if you want."

  Elam shook his head, though the effort was clearly painful. "I'll wait."

  Guil raised an eyebrow—she had not expected that answer—but nodded. "You can get my bag, then, if you would."

  Elam nodded back, and vanished again into the pilot's cabin. Guil leaned back in her chair by the back-up console, knowing she would be least in the way if she remained there. While she had been talking to Elam, the control room had emptied, Sabas and the junior pilot heading down to the cargo hatches, the junior engineer gone below to help Askel shut down the main system, until only Moraghan was left, slouched in the high-backed captain's chair, the fingers of her good hand playing across the intercom buttons. She looked exactly the same as she always had—a little tired, brown smudges under her grey eyes, a half-smile on her wide mouth—and Guil could not repress an answering grin. Moraghan was dressed the same as always, too, in what passed for shipboard uniform: sleeveless vest colored the same faded black as her hair, and crumpled, multi-pocketed ship's trousers. Her left hand and most of her left arm were encased in a black glove that reached almost to her shoulder. It would have seemed like an affectation, if a centimeter or so of reddened scar tissue had not been visible above the cuff, and if the glove had had five fingers instead of three. Not for the first time, Guil wondered just what sort of an accident had ended the other woman's military career.

  Moraghan looked up, as though aware of the other's scrutiny, and her smile widened. She pressed a final sequence of buttons, and stood, stretching. "I need some information from you, Guil, now that Darah's off the bridge."

  "Whatever I can do," the pilot answered, with an involuntary glance toward the p
ilot's cabin.

  Moraghan snorted softly. "If it offends him, screw it. This is ship's business." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "This is planetary night—the Dark, right?"

  Guil nodded, looking at the screen visible over the captain's shoulder. "Just past Sunset."

  "How're things in Destiny these days?" the captain asked bluntly. "Can my people fool around if they want, or do they have to watch their step?"

  Guil looked away, knowing what had prompted that question. Elam was trying to make himself invisible in the doorway of the pilot's cabin, and Guil frowned, hoping he would go back inside. For once, the apprentice took the hint, closing the door behind him. "The Necropolis is just like it's always been, they shouldn't have any trouble there. You know how things work."

  "I've got new people aboard," Moraghan said. Her smile vanished, making her seem suddenly years older. "And I heard about the Tallyrand."

  "Oh." Guil looked down at the back-up console, wondering what she should say. Tallyrand was one of the tramp merchantmen that landed semi-regularly at Destiny. Her owner-captain was well-regarded—Guil had piloted for him more than once, and liked him—but, like all the tramp-captains, he had trouble keeping a crew for any length of time. The last time Tallyrand had come through Destiny, part of her crew—new men who'd never been on Orestes—had gotten into a brawl at a private party, and somehow a mainline Axtell had ended up a ghost. Exactly what had happened remained an Axtell secret—the matter had been decided by a Family court—but it was common knowledge that Tallyrand's captain had been given the choice of paying a bloodfine or losing his Oresteian business. It was said the price had been high enough to ruin him, and Guil could well believe it. Bloodfines had ruined richer men than a mere tramp-captain. She could hardly blame Pipe Major's captain for being a little nervous. She shrugged. "It was a freak thing, Leith—Captain. They were outside the Necropolis. It wouldn't've happened if they'd stayed inside the greengates. Tell your people to stick to the Necropolis—stick to pros and ghosts." She touched her forehead. "Tell them to look for the ghostmark, that's sure."

  Moraghan made an odd face, but nodded. "Sounds like a right mess," she said. "Poor Jens."

  Guil gave her a sidelong glance, wanting to ask what Tallyrand 's captain had told her, but unable to bring herself to pry. Para 'anin did not get involved in any Family's business. Instead, she said, "You'll be on-planet four calendar days?"

  Moraghan nodded, but her answer was cut off by the opening of the control room hatch. "Yeah, Darah?"

  "Customs team's aboard, Captain. They want the log-tapes," Sabas answered. His good eye swiveled toward Guil, then back toward his captain. Moraghan nodded, and reached to touch a button on the main navigation board. A chime sounded, and a slot opened in the board, ejecting a plastic square about the size of a woman's hand. Moraghan handed it to the pilot, and glanced at Guil. "Is yours ready, Guil?"

  "Yeah, thanks," Guil answered, and fumbled in the pockets of her coveralls for the hard plastic square. Sabas took them both, and vanished from the bridge.

  "Let's hope they don't take too long about it," Moraghan muttered, only half to herself. "Though why they need to check their own damn mail so carefully. . . ."

  Guil gave her a sympathetic smile, and pushed herself up out of the chair. Elam was still in the pilot's cabin, obeying her frown; it was time she let him out. She hit the door control, and motioned for the apprentice to come out, taking her bag from his hand as she did so. As she returned to her place in front of the back-up console, she saw with some annoyance that Moraghan was struggling to suppress a laugh.

  For once, the Customs team finished its work in record time. Sabas appeared on the bridge to return the log-tapes and to get Moraghan's initials on the main manifest, then vanished again into the lower levels of the ship to supervise the longshoremen. Moraghan sighed noisily, stretched again, and reached for the microphone that dangled beside the captain's chair. Guil paused in spite of herself. The captain's landing speeches were usually worth hearing, if only because she never seemed to edit them for Oresteian ears.

  "All right, people, listen up." Moraghan's voice echoed oddly, amplified by the ship's systems. "This is Orestes, first off. Read the Register and the Survey pamphlets—that's an order, people. This is a weird world, and you want to know the rules. Second thing—and this is also an order—you will stay in the port city, Destiny. You're not to leave Destiny without my personal permission." There was a pause, and when the captain spoke again, her tone was almost conversational. "Those of you who've been here before know there's no need to leave Destiny; you can get just about anything you want right here. The entertainment district is called the Necropolis—read the Register if you want to know why it's called that—" She paused again, as though collecting her thoughts. "You all heard about Tallyrand, I'm sure. I don't want to see any of my people involved in any kind of incident. Stick to professionals or ghosts—you can tell a ghost by the white dot painted on his/her forehead, and I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how to find a pro."

  Guil grinned at that, and Moraghan gave her a conspiratorial wink before continuing. "For the rest: this is a cold planet, people, and a light one. We've arrived at Sunset, and we'll be staying through the planetary night, which lasts about three standard days. All right, read the Register, stay out of trouble, and be aboard by 0800 s-day 248." She set the microphone back on its hook, and Guil stepped forward, holding out her hand.

  "We'll be going planetside now, Captain Moraghan."

  Moraghan accepted the other woman's handshake. "As always, an easy trip. Can I buy you dinner on the strength of it?"

  Guil smiled. "My pleasure, Captain."

  "Leith," Moraghan corrected, with a smile of her own. "We're downside now. Tonight?"

  "Tonight," Guil agreed. "I'll meet you on the other side of the Customs barrier?"

  "I'll be there as soon as I've filed my papers," Moraghan answered. She gave an eloquent grimace. "You know how long that can take." A light flashed on the communications console, and she turned away to answer it, muttering under her breath.

  Guil nodded sympathetically, and motioned for Elam to follow her from the bridge. The ship's lower levels were already crowded with longshoremen and their equipment, but Pipe Major's junior engineer steered them quickly through the crush to the lower hatch. Guil nodded thanks—words would have been inaudible above the noise of unloading—and stepped through onto the field's fused earth.

  It was cold out, doubly so after the unnatural warmth of Pipe Major. Guil threw back her head, watching her breath smoke in the still air. The combination of the cold and the light gravity was surprisingly invigorating, driving away some of the weariness of the ring passage. Elam seemed to feel it too, cautiously straightening his spine and moving with a little more certainty.

  "What do we do now?" he asked, his tone more tentative than his words. The absence of any title was very noticeable.

  Guil bit back a reprimand. It was her own fault that he didn't address her by any title—the apprentice came from a conservative Branch of his Kinship, and had never worked with para'anin before. She had not chosen to make it easier by telling him her preference, and therefore, she told herself firmly, could not be angry. "We sign in," she said. "Then you can do what you like."

  "Thank you," Elam said meekly, but Guil was not listening. As they rounded the corner of the last machinists' shack, she could see straight down the three kilometers of the main taxiway to Destiny itself. It was not a city of tall buildings—it could not be, on a seismically active world.—but each building was brightly lit, so that Destiny stretched like a jeweled band along the horizon. Agamemnon, half full, was poised like a cloudstone statue on that glittering base. Its light drowned any sight of stars in the cloudless sky. Guil drew a shaky breath, and turned away. Elam followed silently.

  Only a single door opened into the administrative complex from the landing field, and it gave onto a stairway that brought newcomers directly into the Customs c
age. Guil found the line for Port Authority personnel and flashed her ID disk at one bored attendant while holding out her open carryall for the other man's perfunctory inspection. They nodded her through the barriers, and she lifted a hand in polite farewell to them and to Elam before turning toward the narrow waiting area. She settled herself in the most secluded chair, propped her feet on her carryall, and leaned back to think. Moraghan would be on-planet through the Dark—until a little after Sunrise, in fact. That was good: there would be time to do things without having to worry about Sunrise closing down the Necropolis. Guil frowned to herself, calculating. Dinner tonight, yes. . . . And maybe she could persuade Moraghan to stay with her, the way she had the last time. Smiling at the memory, Guil began to run down the stocks of food in her larder.

  A movement on the other side of the Customs barrier caught her attention, and she looked up quickly. Pipe Major's crew had emerged from the stairway and was spreading out among the multiple inspection stations. Guil watched, idly curious. Aboard Pipe Major, she had felt alien, set apart by her unmarred body. No, that wasn't entirely it, she decided. It wasn't just that she was unscarred—the junior pilot, Tham, his name was, showed no visible marks—but that she was in other ways so physically different. She had felt spindly, almost—too tall and thin and not strong enough, all the legacy of Electra's and Orestes' low gravities. Now, for all that there were nearly as many ex-Peacekeepers as Oresteians in the Customs lobby, it was Pipe Major's people who looked wrong. Guil nodded to herself, watching. It really wasn't just the scars that made them look out of place—between the mines and the mills, prostheses were common enough on Orestes—but the body types. Pipe Major's crew seemed collectively short and stocky, and they moved clumsily, as though it was hard to keep from breaking things.

  Guil shook herself then, annoyed with the irrelevance of her own thoughts, and sat up, reaching for her carryall. The nearest agent was almost finished with Moraghan and, even as Guil thought that, the captain was waved on through the barrier. Stretching, Guil moved to meet her.